City of Lights
by Verde Rosso Oro
Summary: "You can't escape what you are, Desmond." He tries, at least. Pre-series drabbles. #4: For a moment the world shifts to blue and - he sees a flash of gold. Someone screams.
1. Home Is Where The City Never Sleeps

Memory Sequence 1:

At 20, New York becomes home to him in a way that the farm never was.

Except for the part where he was never mugged out in the wilderness. He was taught how to fight from the "assassins" but three guys with knives cornering your into an alleyway in broad daylight wasn't exactly part of the training regime. If Desmond ever went back to stealing peoples money, they wouldn't even realize their wallet was missing- until they tried to pay for a cup of coffee.

"Give us your money, and I won't kill y'ah," The first guy who talks is a bandanna wearing, baggy shirt, baggy pants-with-the-boxers-showing wannabe gangster. But Desmond works at Bad Weather where everyone wears trendy nothing-less-than 5000 dollar clothes and it's hard not to notice custom 'fitted' designer jeans. And so, the threat doesn't feel as threatening as it should.

"Aw c'mon Chase, we gotta have a little fun." The one on the right stepped closer, twirling the knife on his hand.

Desmond knows he should pay attention to the possibly life threatening situation. But temptation wins out and he looks at his watch. Which only pisses the muggers off more- _but_ Desmond has a _plan_. It's called: run through the space between asshole on the right and asshole in the middle and keep running.

Reality goes more like this:

Desmond tries to go through the space in between but Chase's fist comes out and slams hims in the gut. On the ground, choking on air Desmond considers the idea that these guys might be serious. The broken rib is his first clue. Chase and his posse wast no time in kicking the shit out of him. Until finally they search his pockets. Desmond starts to laugh. The thing is, he doesn't have any cash. Or any credit cards. Just a key to his crappy apartment that has nothing worth stealing. Except the laptop. Which is also crappy. Surprise, surprise.

His muggers don't find it funny. Chase has had enough of this little shit and he's angst ridden about his multi-billionaire parents that ignore him and he just can't take it anymore. Or something. This is really just Desmond's theory. And as Chase goes for the kill, his knife ready to come down on chest, something happens. It's like his shitty, rusty skills he hasn't used for four years come to life.

He grabs Chase's wrist, twists it until the knife drops. Desmond kicks Chase's right knee, who falls backwards in pain. Asshole number 2 tries to slam his foot in Desmond's stomach. Desmond quickly rolls away and pulls himself up. Assholes number 1 and 2 both lunge at him at the same time.

Desmond punches Asshole number 1 in the jaw, kicks him backwards, turns and grabs asshole number 2's fist. Desmond twisted the guy's arm behind and threw asshole number 2 against the wall, knocking him out. Asshole number 1 looked at his now crying leader, Chase, who was cradling his wrist and then asshole number two out cold on the ground. And ran for it.

Turns out "assassin" training does help when three guys back you into a corner. Except Desmond knows his fighting skills, or lack thereof and what he just did was way beyond his powers. One guy, maybe. Three guys? Hell no. He's breathing heavy, his muscles burning, and he knows the tomorrow his muscles are gonna be sore as shit. And still. Moving like that was- natural. Instinctual. Like he was born for it.

But the moment passes. Desmond leaves the alleyway, and joins the people on the streets.

(Blends into the crowd).

AN: I love pre-ACI Desmond stories about Desmond's life after he runs away from. Ever since he ran away from the Farm. I was so captivated Revelations where they showed you his memories. Ohh man.


	2. It's Raining Memory

Memory Sequence 1:

It's a slow night at Bad Weather.

A girl sits down at the bar, looking completely out of place. All the girls are in mini-skirts with their hair curled, crimped, or straightened. They bat your eyes at with that smoky look, cherry red lips licking lustfully. But this girl is different. Her blonde hair is tied up in a messy bun and if her eyes bat at all, it's because she's trying to keep awake. Blue jeans, grey sweater, and sneakers. Not exactly nightclub material.

**"**What can I get you?" Desmond shouts over the music.

**"**No thanks." She looks up at him with glazed, almost bored, eyes. She swivels in her chair and points to a group of four or five people. "I'm actually just here with my co-workers."

Desmond can't make out any real faces but nods anyways. He gives her another once over. She's definitely not his type. But it doesn't look like she's going anywhere and his shift isn't over for another two hours. He pulls out a glass, grabs the nozzle for the gingerale, adds a bit of orange juice, a lot of gin, and drops a cherry on the top. He puts the drink on the counter and slides it in front of her. She looks at him, eyebrow raised.

**"**On the house," Desmond grins. "Gotta have fun sometime."

**"**Hey! I know how to have fun," She cries, cheeks a little red.

Desmond's smile grows wider. So easy to tease. "Nah. You look like the in-bed-at-six type."

**"**Oh right and your idea of fun is a shirley temple?" She scoffs.

**"**Hey, hey this isn't a shirley temple," Desmond leans across the bar. "_This _is a Shirley Templar."

She stiffens at the name. Shit. Eyeing him more closely now, she tries to see if she knows him. Maybe she'd seen his face in the database? A sleeper in the city? Or a spy. But no, no way. The assassins couldn't have figured out her betrayal. No way. And if they did, they wouldn't have gone about it this way. Offering her a drink with such an obvious red flag.

**"**Hey uh, you okay there?"

**"**Fine." She tried to smile. This was all coincidence. Just coincidence. "So what's the difference between a Shirley temple and a Shirley Templar?"

**"**Nothing. I just add gin." Desmond laughs. "Name's Des by the way."

She's about to reply when one of her co-workers, Leila, comes over. Leila grabs her hand and starts to drag her away. Definitely drunk. She pulls her hand out of Leila's grasp and goes back to the bar. One, to memorize Des' face just in case. Two, she left her purse there and it's a bitch to replace Abstergo IDs.

**"**Looks like you're heading out." He says.

She nods. "Yeah, I am. It was-

**"**Lu_cy _let's _go_." Leila whines.

Lucy sighs. She says a quick goodbye to Des and makes her way to Leila.

Desmond watches her until she disappears down the exit hallway. He dumps her untouched drink down the sink and starts washing the glass. He can see Christie making her way to the bar excitedly. Desmond barely contains a groan. Every time he talks to a girl for more the two minutes and Christie is all over him.

**"**Soo, who was she?" Christie asked.

**"**No one."

**"**Aw come on," she pressed herself against the counter. Batting eyes and cherry red lips. "Won't you tell your dear, dear boss who the girl was?"

**"**Honestly Christie, I don't even know her name." Desmond sighed. He was a little disappointed about the that. He thinks her friend, Lily? Lola?, might've said the blonde girls name, but he could barely make it out. Lulu? Rudy? Ah, whatever. Just another night at Bad Weather. Years later, he still won't make the connection. Lucy will.


	3. Going, Going, Gone!

Memory Sequence 2:

Most of his friends don't really know him― if there's anything to know beyond conspiracy freaks for

parents, bartender at a nightclub, Christie's crush on him and his girlfriend of three months Giselle. Scratch the part about the girlfriend. Their relationship was more a friends-with-benefits thing. Minus the friend part. Just benefits. They hooked up, alright? _A lot_. Except Giselle now has a thing for his buddy Nick, who apparently is head over heels for her. And now they're dating. Of course he did demand that her and Desmond stop hooking up. And that the relationship would be monogamous. A just-you-and-me thing. Except Desmond _knows_ Giselle like he knows her curves, her lips and her moans and it isn't love that glints in her eyes.

But Nick is kind of dense so it takes him awhile to figure it out.

He walks in on Giselle being fucked senseless on her coffee table. Later Nick will say how surprised and embarrassed Giselle looked when he walked in. He sobs about how she went after him as he stormed out, screaming to let her explain. How he ignores the one text he gets from her. How he doesn't understand what went wrong or why she didn't just outright break up with him. And Desmond doesn't say anything because he's such a fucking asshole. And because honesty and lies and things you don't say aren't his thing.

When Nick and Giselle had started dating, Desmond should have said any of following: "Listen Nick, you know how some people are described as afraid of commitment? Yeah, she's not afraid of it, she just doesn't want it. Ever."

No. Desmond frowned.

Maybe something like: "Buddy, just keep in mind that we were having sex literally the night before you told Giselle you liked her."

_Jesus_ no.

How about: "What kind of dumbass dates a girl your best friend was having _casual sex _with. What is this, Days of Our Lives? Was her cheating on you that much of a surprise? And now, I get to fucking sit here and feel guilty about not telling you that my _ex-fuck buddy _becoming your _girlfriend _wasn't going to work out. Because that was so hard to figure out."

Or he could he keep his mouth shut and not yell at the guy― his best friend of two years―who was having an emotional breakdown at his apartment. Desmond wasn't gonna just throw Nick out. Even it was 11 o'clock at night. Even though he hasn't slept well for three weeks. Even though all Desmond really wanted to was the watch the minutes tick by to midnight with a cold beer in hand. But Nick was the first, possibly the only, real friend he'd ever made. So his own self-inflicted misery was going to sit on the back burner.

On the bright side, he could still have that beer. Handing one beer to Nick too, Desmond took a seat across the kitchen table. Sticking with not saying anything stupid he'd regret later, he waited for Nick to start talking again. But no words came. Even the uncontrollable crying and hitting walls had stopped. Nick just stared at the table lifelessly. And like his original plan the minutes ticked by. Just more awkwardly. And then finally,

"She was going to meet my parents tomorrow."

"Oh," Desmond shifted in his seat. Drank half his beer. "Well uh, listen. There are plenty of fish in the sea right? I mean come on man. You can do better. You _will _do better."

"I did do better. Giselle _was _better," Nick put his head in his hand and tried to control his breathing. "Can we just talk about something else?"

And Desmond decides right then and there that for all his sarcastic wit, he hasn't got a single comforting bone in his body. Words, as it turns out, aren't his speciality (and isn't that just hilarious?). But his cupboards have booze and he makes a damn good drink after drink, after drink. In a matter of minutes they're both drunk off their asses laughing like hollow men. The coffee table's been pushed away so they can sit on his shit rug, of his shit apartment. Then he hears it.

_Beep. Beep. BEEP. Beep. Beep. BEEP._

Desmond reaches for his discarded hoodie on the couch, looking through its pockets for his phone. He flips is open to see an image of an alarm clock blinking the time: 11:59PM. Blink. 11:59PM. Blink. 12:00AM. Blink. Nick slides closer to Desmond to see the phone. They both stare at the screen, mentally ploughing through the drunken haze to think a sober thought. Nick blinks. 12:01AM. Laughs.

"Dude, why is your alarm set for midnight?"

12:03AM. 13 March 2008. Six years. Desmond snorts.

_Happy freakin' birthday._

(_――Nick Payton is thirty-six when his wife finds a box labelled D.M. while she's rummaging through fifty other boxes. She's been looking all around the house for one particular file of a pro-Bono case she worked a few years ago. She opens the box expecting to find more files and papers from the law firm. Instead it's full of unorganized pieces of newspaper clippings, security camera photos of a blindfolded man with his hands tied behind his back. At the bottom of the box are a small pile of posters, all with the same image of the man, without the blindfold.  
_

_At the top of the picture, in large bold letters it read: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?_

_Below the picture, in the same black letters:_

_DESMOND MILES_

_AGE: 25 – HEIGHT: 6' – WEIGHT: 195 LBS – BROWN HAIR – BROWN EYE_

_LAST SEEN SEPT 1, 2012_

_NEAR WASHINGTON SQUARE PARK_

_WEARING WHITE HOODIE AND DARK JEANS_

_If you have any information at all, please contact at us at: -_

"_H-honey!" Grace yelled for her husband._

_A few seconds later Nick opened the door to the garage and looked to his wife. _

"_You need some help Grace?"_

"_Who's Desmond Miles?" Grace squeaked. "And why do you have a box filled with newspaper clippings and... security footage from Floyd Bennett Field?"_

_His wife looked at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. And by the look on her face it'd better be a good one. But what could he say? When Desmond disappeared he spent a year of his life trying to find him. Even after the police closed the investigation he kept looking. He went to Desmond's favourite hang outs, tracked down three of his ex-girlfriends, talked to everyone who worked at Bad Weather. Nick spent two months in the Black Hills trying to find Desmond's parents. That had been fruitless too. Getting the security tapes alone had been some shady business. For a lawyer, he'd broken a lot of laws as a kid._

_But that's a past he's trying to forget._

"_He was a friend. From New York." He's lost touch with all his old friends from the nightclub. At first Desmond's kidnapping had brought them all closer but eventually, it created a rift._

"_From law school?" Grace pushed forward._

"_No. He was a bartender at this nightclub downtown," Nick laughed to himself, as if remembering an old joke. "One night we both got drunk at his apartment and I was telling him all this story from high school. You know the one about my prom date. And I said to him... well I asked him if he went to prom."_

_Nick stopped talking. For years he though that Desmond was still alive. That maybe he went back to his parents, to his life before the city and the bars and pizza at 2am. There was never a funeral. Never a grave. And even if there had been one the coffin would be empty. When he graduated from law school, Nick accepted a job at a law firm in Chicago. New York was becoming the past quickly. Giselle was the stupidest mistake he ever made. He'd never live in a dorm again. Desmond was dead._

"_Nick?" Grace waved a hand in front of his face. "Honey?"_

"_He didn't go to prom. Didn't go to high school." He laugh again, loudly this time. "He used to say his parents were hippies tying to 'stick it to the man.'"_)

AN: I've decided to write longer drabbles from now on. yayyy! so i've been watching all the trailers for the assassins creed games and my favourite is for revelations. hurray for birthdays!


	4. i'm living in a dream

Memory Sequence 2

December 31st, 2008:

"Forever" by Chris Brown is rated the top hit of 2008 by the New York Hit Music Station and it plays at Bad Weather like a broken record. He hates (if he even liked it in the first place) the song by the end of the night. Well to be fair – he hates all the top 40 songs by the end of the night. Everywhere he goes – on the radio it's Paramore, or his neighbours are screaming the lyrics of Miss Independent, or the ring tone of his co-worker is When I Grow Up.

[All you gotta do is watch me

Look at what I can do with my feet

Baby, feel the beat inside]

(This is the year of Desmond Miles)

January 8th, 2008:

An attempted assassination of Maldivian president Muamoon Abdul Gaymoon is thwarted after a boy scout grabs the attacker's knife. Briefly, Desmond wonders if the 'assassin' was an actual Assassinor just some guy with a knife. And it's stupid – really, really stupid – but he wonders if the Maldivian president is actually Templar.

He wonders if he had believed – and he can picture the stern stare of William Miles – what his parents taught him, would he still be here - serving tequila shots and cranberry vodkas to minors with fake IDs and staring at the city lights in awe and passing out on his couch because the bed's too far. (What he really wonders is when that wasn't enough for him anymore.)

[And it was all in vain

Time starts to pass

Before you know it you're frozen]

February 25th, 2008:

He standing at the grave of Maria Vasquez, his ex-girlfriend. He's not really sure what he's doing here because when they were friends they fought all the time, when they were dating they fought all the time, and by the end of the relationship they didn't even _like_ each other, let alone love. She was annoyingly clingy – always wanted to know where he's going, what he's doing, who he's with and when he's coming back. She hated that he never said much about his family – because there's nothing to say – and how she kept saying that he's obviously hiding something (and he's never thought of it that way – so maybe he is).

And he's not much of a boyfriend either. He can give her easy smiles and tease her about her clumsiness and take her out for dinner but he can't give her himself. Which sounds stupid, but there you have it. There's not much to say – and what he could say, he won't because what if his parents find him? And yes, it's kind of stupid to even think that because what are the chances? But Maria likes to gossip and he _knows_ that she tells her 'girlfriends' everything and – better safe than sorry right? When people ask who broke up with who, he doesn't have an answer, Because they had a huge fight in a crowded restaurant and stormed out on each other.

And still, he misses her.

He misses sitting across from her on the subway and ignoring her, ignoring him. He misses going to the bakery where she works – because they have the best cakes in town and cakes are his favourite – and exchanging insults. He misses her coming to Bad Weather with guys that look better than him to make him jealous. He misses that even though they hate each other, when she gets accept to do a Master's in Anthropology at the University of Chicago, he's the first person she tells because he always knew that this was her dream – that this mattered above all else.

(He thinks that, maybe, twenty-two is too young to die.)

[I can feel her on my skin

I can taste her on my tongue

She's the sweetest taste of sin]

June 4th, 2008:

On his first day off in two weeks he watches Fight Club for the first time.

His boss, co-workers and friends have all watched it – and apparently it's a surprised he hasn't. Something about a classic and whatnot. It's got an 8.9 rating on IMDb with Brad Pitt and of course, everyone knows that except him. He likes "The Narrator" who's played by Edward Norton who is really Tyler Durden who's played by Brad Pitt. It mirrors his own identity crisis – except for the part where he isn't a hallucinating bat-shit crazy guy who likes to picture himself as Brad Pitt and beat the shit out of people (but it's close enough so whatever).

"You wake up at Seatac, SFO, LAX. You wake up at O'Hare, Dallas-Fort Worth, BWI. Pacific, mountain, central. Lose an hour, gain an hour. This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time. You wake up at Air Harbor International. If you wake up at a different time, in a different place, could you wake up as a different person?"

The line gives him chills because when he tries to picture himself as a different person, or tries create a person like Tyler Durden, who has the balls to be the person you want to be – all he sees is the face of William Miles. And he hates – _hates –_ William Miles.

[What's wrong with me?

Why do I feel like this?

I'm going crazy now]

October 19, 2008:

He didn't see this coming. Sure, he's imagined what it would be like to run into his father – probably something along the lines of dragging him back to the farm whether or not he wants to. And he definitely doesn't want to. Mostly. But he's never imagined running into his mother – well, it's not so much running into her as it is him staring at her from across the crowded floor. You might be wondering, what the hell is his mother doing in a _club_?

Well, that's because neither of them are standing in a club. They're standing in an opera house holding a flute of champagne and Desmond is wearing a suit – tuxedo, whatever – and his mother is wearing a sparkly blue gown that makes her look like a queen. It's weird seeing her here – it's weird seeing himself here because opera, really? - and it's even weirder how well she fits in. Like she was born rich and noble, and she had private tutoring was in Philosophy and Latin or something. Politics too, probably.

He tries not to look at her because the hairs on her neck will stand up, and she'll look around the crowd – and see him. But her hair is curled and pinned to the side – it reminds him of that old Hollywood glam, like she stepped out of the 1920s and into 2012 – and she's wearing wearing jewels on her wrist, her neck, and head. He thinks everyone else here looks snobby and gaudy but she looks beautiful – no, elegant, she looks elegant – and she's charming the pants off of three men.

That's when he realizes, that this isn't an outing. She's not here for fun – even though it looks like like she's having fun. He wonders if somebody's going to die tonight, or if someone here is informant. He hopes it's the latter because he can't really his mother – no, his mom – killing a man. Woman. Whatever. Though, he shouldn't be surprised. His mom is pretty decent assassin – he doesn't actually know, but he figures that's the type his father would go for.

But he's getting sidetracked because his mom is here and Desmond is here, and what the fuck is he supposed to do? A part of him wishes he was looking at William Miles in some dapper suit because Desmond would run to the hills in an instant. But – well – he kind of misses her. And he wants to wait till she's done whatever she's doing before he leaves. Just in case. And why the hell is he still staring?

A hand on his back pull him out of his thoughts. It's Charlie, or as his family and family friends call him, Charles Edward Graham the Fifth (and yeah, you can already tell that Desmond wasn't the who bought tickets to the opera – the fucking opera – and the suit he's wearing didn't just happen to be in his closet. No, he's here because Charlie said, oh it'll be fun Desmond. You need to expand your horizons, Desmond. There will be free Champagne, Desmond. We can ride in a limo, Desmond. You need to be there so I don't throttle my family, Desmond. Charlie failed to say, you'll be bored out of your fucking mind and run into your mother who you haven't seen in five years, Desmond).

And while he's glaring at Charlie, Charlie is looking at his mother. Charlie speaks amiably – _amiably_, he's got Desmond thinking the words 'amiably' – when he says, "I saw you watching Miss Bluebell. She's caused quite the rumours."

Desmond has no idea why Charlie's calling his mother 'Miss Bluebell' because her last name is Miles. Then again, he doesn't actually know what his mom's maiden name is because he's never bothered to ask (because he's like his father more than he'd like to admit). But he can't go around saying that kind of stuff, so instead tries to look like he's curious, but still bored.

"Rumours? What did she do, have a child out of wedlock?" Desmond snorts. Because okay, he's supposed to try and fit in, but all these people talk and walk and act like they grew up in the Victorian era. Who else would use words like 'improper' and 'quite'.

"Yes," Charlie said. "The Bluebells are a prominent family is well known in High Society. Unfortunately, Miss Bluebells parents were killed in a car accident some 35 years ago and she disappeared. That left her grandparents – Mr Edward Bluebell and Mrs Elizabeth Bluebell. However, Mrs Bluebell passed away about a year ago. Eight months later, her husband followed. Miss Beatrice Bluebell reappearing shortly after. She's the owner of the Bluebell estate and the sole heir of their fortune."

Desmond doesn't even want to count how many times Charlie said Bluebell. Or how - if his mother actually is Bluebell – convenient it is that her grandparents, his great grandparents, died and she swooped right in. And he's definitely not saying that its suspicious. It's probably coincidence. Or maybe the Brotherhood saw this as an opportunity. Definitely not suspicious. Nope.

The lights flash, a sign that the intermission is over. He sits down in a balcony with the rest of Charlies family, and waits. Piccolo, Flutes, Oboes. Cor Anglais, Clarinets, Bassoons. French Horns, Trumpets, Trombones, Tuba. Cymbals, Snare Drum, Bass Drum, Timpani. Pianos, Celesta. Harps. Violins, Violas, Cellos. Double Basses. On the stage, a man and a woman sing. Tenor, Soprano.

Desmond looks into the balconies, trying to see his mother – trying to figure out what she's doing here (and this is a lie, lie, lie because he already knows and no, no, no he doesn't because his parents are conspiracy freaks – just conspiracy freaks). He looks down, searching the seats below. There must be more than three hundred people here. For a moment the world turns blue and – he sees a flash of gold.

Someone screams.

[There is nothing left to prove

No use to deny this simple truth

Can't find a reason to keep holding on]

December 31st, 2008:

"Forever" by Chris Brown is rated the top hit of 2008 by the New York Hit Music Station and it plays at Bad Weather like a broken record. He hates (if he even liked it in the first place) the song by the end of the night. Well to be fair – he hates all the top 40 songs by the end of the night. Everywhere he goes – on the radio it's Paramore, or his neighbours are screaming the lyrics of Miss Independent, or the ring tone of his co-worker is When I Grow Up.

[Tyler, what the fuck is going on here?]

[I ask you for one thing, one simple thing.]

He serves one rum and coke, six kamikazes, two Strawberry Daiquiris, and ten pitchers of 'the cheapest beer you have' in half an hour. It's one hour to midnight, the club is full, and everybody's wasted. And he's going insane.

[Why do people think that I'm you? Answer me!]

[Sit.]

He's never really paid attention to music – it's not really his thing. But everyday, listening to the same goddam music is driving him up the wall. It's the lyrics, really. Because he must be the worst interpreter of music ever because he's listening to a fucking pop song and in his head it has a deeper meaning and all that bullshit.

[Now answer me, why do people thing that I'm you.]

[I think you know.]

And while we're at it, he hates, hates, HATES Fight Club. Because he HATES William Miles. He hates that when he's angry he talks like his father, when he's bitter he talks like his father, when he's so hammered that he can't see straight, he talks like his father. He hates that when his hair turns grey and his skin gets wrinkly, he'll look like his father (so he makes a point to die young).

[No, I don't.}

[Yes, you do. Why would anyone possibly confuse you with me?]

He shouldn't have looked at the body. The Opera was boring and he's shouldn't have look at the body. The area was taped up, with police men doing damage control. Here and there he could see several witnesses telling their story. Only they weren't witnesses – they were just people, scared people, who dress in fancy shoes and suits and dresses. He walked to the crime scene – could you imagine, a fucking opera house becoming a crime scene!

The policeman put his hands up and said, "Sir, you can't come any closer."

But he has to know. So he shifted his body to the left to look behind the policeman. On a red velvet seat with gold filigree sat a man. The had rolled backwards and from where he stood Desmond could swear the man was sleeping. But the man's arm was hanging still across the arm rest, dripping blood onto the aisle. On the back of the seat, Desmond had seen a hole ripped through the fabric – through the the chair. And he could imagine himself sitting there, watching the opera, when a knife plunges into his heart. He lets out a strangled cough and spits blood, but everyone is watching the stage and the orchestra is too loud. His hand goes to his chest to cover the wound but there's too much blood – there's _too much blood_. He dies.

His head slides onto the shoulder of the lady beside him – who huffs angrily and pushes his head back. But her hand comes back sticky. And her shoulder is sticky. And she sees the blood.

They never find the killer. Desmond doesn't know what that proves.

[Uh... I... I don't know.]

– a self-beating, marla singer, nitrogen, plane tickets –

He sees his mother – no, his mom – and all he can think of is his father. It's five minutes to midnight and all he can think of is his father. Thirty-three minutes to a new year, to 2009, and all he think of his father. His words, his actions, his failures – but what he, is this he?

But Desmond's shift is over and the world is shifting blue again (but no one glows gold) and all he wants is home. His house. Well, apartment. His shitty apartment. Whatever. Better than nothing right?

[No.]

[Say it.]

He's in the bathroom – brushing his teeth, rinsing with mouthwash, washing his face. And he looks at his 'ravishing good looks' and finally gets it. And he hates it.

[Because...]

[Say it.]

Every time a bitter memory surfaces (and it happens so often) he always says to himself, he hates his father. And now, after all these years, now he sees it because he's looking in a mirror, and mirrors don't lie. He hates William Miles. He hates himself. (When did that happen?)

[Because we're the same person.}

[That's right.]

December 31st, 2008:

An extra leap second is added to the end of the year – 23:59:60 – and Chris Brown is still playing on the radio. He never wants to see William Miles. And he never wants to look in the mirror again. And he never wants to go to the opera again. And he never wants a friend to die again. And when he leaves – it has to be when and not if – New York, he never wants to come back. And – and – what he wants?

He wants – _fuck_ – he just – he just... wants to believe that his mother isn't a killer.

And then... he laughs until he almost cries. He breaks everything he owns – the laptop, the lamp, the chairs (he even tries to burn the couch) because he's going crazy. He's going FUCKING INSANE. He sees blue and blood and knives. He sees everything he wanted to leave behind. INSANE – INSANE – INSANE.

And finally, he breathes. He gets a bottle of whiskey, and takes a seat on his tattered couch.

[This isn't a real suicide-thing. This is probably one of those cry-for-help things.]

all he sees is the face of –

(This is the year of Desmond Miles)

00:00:00

AN : All the songs mentioned are actually from the top 40 list of 2008, from the New York Music Station. I had a bunch of ideas and I couldn't decided what I wanted to do for the 2/2 of Memory Sequence 2. So next chapter-thing is gonna be Memory Sequence 3

MERRY CHRISTMAS/HAPPY HOLIDAYS AND A NEW YEAR.


End file.
